Pianosa Days
by killwassouf
Summary: A collection of drabbles about life in Pianosa, Rome, and anywhere else Yo-Yo and his buddies care to go.
1. Food fight

**I'm rather disappointed at the lack of _Catch-22_ material that currently exists, so I decided to try to rectify the situation with this story. It'll basically be a bunch of drabble things set at random points in the novel. I have concrete ideas for the first four - beyond that, I'm completely in the dark, so if you have any ideas or prompts you want to give me, just pop em in the reviews and I'll write you up a lil something. Disclaimer: I am not Joseph Heller, he's dead. RIP**

Yossarian could never be sure whether it was Orr or Milo who started the food fight in the mess hall. On one hand, it was Orr who stood up and hurled the plate of stewed tomatoes at Havermeyer's face like he had hurled his ping pong paddle at Appleby's nose in the officer's club a few weeks before. Nately stood stock-still, tight-lipped and white-faced in shock, where he had sprung up moments earlier in a futile attempt to stop Orr's spontaneous aggression. Havermeyer stared dumbfoundedly at the mashed tomato bits streaming blood-red down his face and Yossarian, knowing what was coming, ducked for cover under the table as the world exploded around him. Stewed tomatoes were flying with reckless abandon across the mess hall, and the stench was overpowering and unbearable. Just as Yossarian decided that he would begin believing in God so that he could pray that no one would find him, Aarfy's face appeared under the table, grinning vapidly as a streak of tomato trickled down his cheek.

"What are you doing down here?" Aarfy laughed, and Yossarian was seized with an intense desire to murder him.

But just as Yossarian opened his mouth to respond, the world went red - Aarfy had shoved a plate of stewed tomatoes in his face. Yossarian bent over and vomited piteously onto the floor; he hated stewed tomatoes. He curled into the fetal position and waited for the ordeal to end. But just as the men around him began running out of plates of stewed tomatoes, there was Milo selling his surplus of Athenian tomatoes at five times the normal price.

"Supply and demand," Milo had explained when he snuck into Yossarian and Orr's tent the night before. "Basic economics. No one will buy my tomatoes right now, because everyone hates stewed tomatoes. But if you two start a food fight," he gazed at them hopefully, "I can raise prices, sell all my tomatoes, and make a profit for the syndicate. And the beauty of it is that everyone has a share, so everyone benefits."

But neither Yossarian nor Orr cared what the beauty of it was, for Orr was busy tinkering with parts with which he hoped to create a stove, and Yossarian was busy ignoring Orr's goddamn tinkering.

"Milo," Orr giggled, "Do you want to know why that girl was hitting me over the head with my shoe in Rome?"

Milo was perplexed and nonplussed. "What girl?"

Orr tilted his head in disappointment, but turned to Yossarian. "Yossarian," he cackled, "Do you want to know why that girl was hitting me over the head with my shoe in Rome?"

Yossarian was too busy ignoring Orr to respond to him. Orr tittered and returned to his stove parts. Milo was growing desperate and, seeing that Orr was the more receptive of the two, pleaded with him.

"You hate Appleby, don't you, Orr?"

Orr's eyes glittered. "I suppose I do, Milo."

Milo seized these words like a lifeline. "Splendid! Then you can throw your stewed tomatoes at him tomorrow at lunch!"

"Why should I do something like that?"

Milo spluttered in disbelief. "Because you hate him!" he finally managed to choke out, astonished at Orr's audacity.

Orr began giggling wildly. "No, no," he admonished. "I said I _suppose_ I hate him. Of course I don't hate Appleby."

Yossarian shook his head as Orr dissolved into peals of gleeful laughter. Really, Milo knew better than to fall for such a simple trick.

But Milo was determined. "How about Havermeyer then?" he appealed to Orr.

Orr shrugged. "I suppose I could throw stewed tomatoes at Havermeyer," he agreed affably.

And that was that.

When the food fight was finally mercifully over, the men were forced to trudge, covered from head to toe in red paste, to the office shared by Captain Piltchard and Captain Wren.

"So, men," Captain Piltchard began awkwardly as the men stained his office red, "I think we all know why things like this can't continue to happen. It's childish, not befitting of a professional unit at all. Captain Wren has more to say to you on this subject."

"Yes, very unprofessional," Captain Wren weighed in. "And that's all I have to say on that subject."

"You've put Colonel Cathcart in a real tough spot here," Captain Piltchard added. "It'll be a real black eye for him if he lets this go unpunished."

But it turned out that the men were saved, for at that very moment, Milo Minderbinder was showing Colonel Cathcart the figures for the immense profit the syndicate had made from the food fight.

And everyone had a share.

 **My motivation to write fluctuates like one of those heartbeat monitor things, so I dunno how regular updates are gonna be, sorry.**


	2. Camping

**I don't own _Catch-22_.**

When Colonel Cathcart heard that Orr had disappeared, he decided that the men of his squadron needed a distraction to boost morale.

"It would be a real feather in my cap," he explained to Colonel Korn in his office, "to show how much I care about the enlisted men under my command."

But no sooner had he uttered these words when he was struck by the thought that perhaps General Dreedle and General Peckem shared the same contempt for enlisted men as him, in which case they wouldn't appreciate the gesture he was making, in which case it would not be a feather in his cap at all but rather a black eye. Distraught at this sudden turn of events, Colonel Cathcart was ready to scrap the plan altogether.

But Colonel Korn seemed to have other thoughts. "Seems fine to me," he shrugged offhandedly.

Colonel Cathcart glowed with pride. This was the first time one of his ideas had ever received support from Colonel Korn, and this one was a doozie, sure to be a real feather in his cap - perhaps the biggest feather in his cap to date. Not to mention the fact that he had also managed to show Colonel Korn that he was not reliant on him for his ideas or his support. Colonel Cathcart was extremely pleased, and he grabbed a plum tomato from one of the boxes on the shelves and took a bite out of it before remembering that he did not particularly like plum tomatoes. He discarded the rest of the tomato into a wastebasket that, he noted, was nearly full to the brim of plum tomatoes, all with one bite taken out of them.

Colonel Cathcart turned to address Colonel Korn as a thought occurred to him. "Say," he said eagerly, "do you think this might land me in the _Saturday Evening Post_?"

Colonel Korn snorted as he turned to leave the office. "One can always hope."

* * *

Yossarian watched as McWatt cheerfully strode around the tent, setting up sleeping bags and unpacking supplies with a careless enthusiasm that made him want to wrap his fingers around McWatt's neck and squeeze until he came to his senses and started acting like he was in the middle of a fucking war. He missed Orr, who he would surely have shared a tent with despite the fact that Orr was a bastard with horse chestnuts and crab apples in his cheeks who would have annoyed Yossarian to no end needling him about the girl back in Rome who had been hitting Orr over the head with his shoe. McWatt was as bad a tentmate as he was good a pilot. Yossarian would have preferred Nately, who would nag him to death about inconsequential things, or Hungry Joe, whose screams would keep him up at night, or the chaplain, who would feel even guiltier at his failure to ground Yossarian, or Doc Daneeka, who would moan and gripe incessantly, or even Dobbs, who would try to involve Yossarian in another plot to murder Colonel Cathcart. But the tent arrangements had been decided by Captain Piltchard and Captain Wren back at the squadron meeting.

"Colonel Cathcart has decided that a squadron-wide morale boost might be necessary," Captain Piltchard had announced nervously to the group.

"Did he reduce the number of missions?" Yossarian asked, and Hungry Joe's face fell at the mere possibility.

Captain Wren shook his head, and Hungry Joe relaxed. "A two-day camping excursion," he announced to deafening silence.

Seeing that the men did not seem to be sold on the idea, Captain Piltchard took immediate action. "Sleeping bags," he wheedled. "A night in the wilderness. Marshmallows and campfires!"

"Marshmallows and campfires," McWatt later remarked, cheeks bulging with marshmallows, as they sat around the campfire. "I've always liked marshmallows and campfires."

"Really?" Milo asked, perking up from his seat next to Yossarian. "Would you say there's a market for marshmallows and campfires?"

Hungry Joe looked thoughtful. "I'm sure there's a market for marshmallows," he said seriously. "But I don't reckon you could find many places that sell campfires."

"Who gives a shit?" interjected Yossarian, and all the men fell silent for a minute as they pondered this question.

All except Aarfy on Yossarian's other side, who laughed stupidly and punched Yossarian in the shoulder. "Speak up," he requested jovially. "Ol' Aarfy can't hear you."

"Never mind," Yossarian muttered.

Aarfy cupped a hand to his ear. "What's that? I can't hear you."

Yossarian jumped to his feet just as Nately did as well to restrain him. "I'll kill you," he hissed, lunging fruitlessly at Aarfy as Nately held him back. "See if I won't, you stupid bastard."

"Yossarian," Nately pleaded. "Help me hold him, chaplain."

The chaplain, who had been wondering how to apologize to Sergeant Whitcomb for being assigned to the same tent as him, was alarmed at being addressed by someone and was too slow to stop Yossarian from breaking free of Nately's embrace and tackling Aarfy to the ground. Hungry Joe, roaring with delighted laughter, wasted no time in joining the fray, his great big fists falling indiscriminately on both Yossarian and Aarfy. Yossarian, suddenly fearing for his life, managed to slip out unnoticed from the whirlwind of limbs and bolted for the forest, where he smashed into a man who had been loitering by the edge of the treeline.

"Who are you?" Yossarian asked, spitting dirt from his mouth.

"Who are you?" the man shrieked fearfully, leaping to his feet.

"I'm Giuseppe," Yossarian answered truthfully.

"Like hell you're Giuseppe," the man responded immediately. "You're Yossarian. Tell me, Yossarian, has Chief White Halfoat died yet?"

Yossarian inspected the man more closely and saw, to his astonishment, that it was none other than Captain Flume, dressed in rags and coated in mud, leaves, and sticks.

"Where have you been living?" he asked in bewilderment.

"Not you, too!" Captain Flume shrieked, and before Yossarian could blink he had taken off deeper into the woods.

For a moment, Yossarian considered following Captain Flume. The woods might not be friendly, but certainly they were more so than all the people who wanted to kill him back at the base. He stood for a moment, wracked with indecision.

Then he turned and made his way back to the campfire, where Hungry Joe had managed to start an all-out brawl.

 **Reviews are always appreciated!**


	3. Poker

**I am not Joseph Heller.**

Dunbar's fingers kissed the ends of the two cards that Nurse Duckett had dealt to him, lifting them just enough for him to take a peek before he folded with a quick flick of his wrist, sending them spinning into the muck. Dunbar always folded because it made the game insufferably boring and the time pass slowly.

Next to him, Yossarian was sprawled on the beach, absently tracing the contours of Nurse Duckett's thigh as he pondered the two black queens in his hand. He disliked the color black, but then again, he disliked the color red as well. He raised.

Hungry Joe looked at his cards one at a time, praying for a good hand like Yossarian prayed to the God he didn't believe in whenever he flew a mission. He groaned as he saw the inevitable bad news, and his cards joined Dunbar's in the muck. Hungry Joe always folded because he could never pick up a playable hand.

Nately didn't even look at his cards before announcing that he was all in. Nately always went all in because Yossarian would never call, even when he had aces.

Yossarian sighed and peeked again at his queens. It was very likely that he had the best hand, but even in the best-case scenario he only had around 80% equity, and really, who was willing to risk it all on 80%? Yossarian probably had a greater than 80% chance to live on a mission as long as McWatt was his pilot, but didn't his heart begin pounding and his hands start clamming up as soon as they took off? No, 80% equity would never be enough for him, and he folded.

"Sorry guys," Nately said sheepishly as Nurse Duckett pushed the pot towards him. "Guess I just got lucky again."

Yossarian always forgave Nately, even though he knew Nately was exploiting his play. Because Yossarian was already being exploited by so many other people, and besides, Nately was a good guy to be exploited by anyways.

"Say," Dunbar sang with an evil grin on his face, poking Hungry Joe in the side with his foot. "Guess what I folded there?"

Hungry Joe turned to him confusedly. "What?"

Dunbar leaned closer conspiratorially and whispered: "Aces."

Hungry Joe's eyes bulged and Nately had to restrain him from flinging himself at Dunbar. "You son of a bitch," Hungry Joe ranted, "you don't know how it feels to run bad!"

Dunbar snickered as one of Hungry Joe's flailing limbs knocked the deck out of Nurse Duckett's hands, sending cards flying all over the sand. They'd have to calm Hungry Joe down and then reassemble the deck; time was passing more slowly than ever.

 **Cheers to anyone who happens to understand my username :^)**


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